‘Why I’m Finally Speaking Up About What Terry Richardson Did to Me’ By: Anna del Gaizo (Story Taken From Jezabel.com)
When I read this story, I was shocked/disgusted/angry and immediately felt the need to post it. Please read and share your thoughts in the comment section. Girls, hopefully reading this will remind you to ALWAYS follow your intuition, never be afraid to say no, and to STOP being a people pleaser. But what enraged me even more than Terry was his FEMALE assistant who served as his wing woman, catering to him by exploiting other women and trying to disguise it all as ‘cool’ and ‘fun’ is beyond revolting. But read for yourself. (this coming from a girl who has posted a million of terry richardson’s photos alongside blog posts on this very website. ha! that will change.)
When I was 12 years old, my mother hit pause on the VCR player, stopping the movie we were watching. I’m pretty sure it was starring Ashley Judd, and it could have been A Time to Kill, but all I remember is that whatever it was involved rape. She told me, with tears in her eyes, that when she was 23 years old, she was abducted by a stranger, held captive in the Southern California woods, and brutally raped to within an inch of her life.
From then on, nothing that happened to me was that big a deal. Not a truck driver leaning out his window as I walked to high school, gleefully yelling at me, “I wanna rape that thing, baby!” nor giving a blow job in an alleyway to a boy I didn’t even like nor my eighth-grade homeroom teacher instructing my male classmate to shove his hand up my skirt during a fire drill. Not getting followed to my Cornelia Street doorstep at 19 by a stranger and threatening to call the police while he pressed his erection into my thigh. Not going undercover as an “erotic maid” for an NYU undergrad class, when I wore nothing but a thong and stilettos in front of strange men in their homes to find out if they actually wanted me to clean or if they just cared about getting off (take a wild guess). Not my college professor following me into the women’s restroom in the middle of a lesson to stick his tongue down my throat (same school, different class). Not even my mother’s close friend pinning me to my bed at 16 and telling me, with a hardcover copy of my favorite book in his hands, I was his own version of the namesake character “Lo-li-ta,” as he attempted to penetrate me. None of that was a big enough deal to make into a big deal.
So when Terry Richardson shoved his hardening dick into my face in 2008, when I was 23 years old, it wasn’t anything for me to get too emotional about, either. Only pussies get emotional. I might be a girl who wears lipstick just to check the mail and whines when her high heel breaks and cries when certain things don’t go her way and wants a brand-new dress for every minor occasion and yes, has a pussy, but I would not be a pussy. I would be a “player,” impervious to emotions, too aloof to be vulnerable, too tough to act sensitive, and too cool to admit I sometimes, only sometimes, wanted a boyfriend and not just a one-night stand. I would give blow jobs because I liked giving blow jobs, not because I cared about making guys like me (lie). Because that, from the age of 12 to 27, was my muddled interpretation of feminism. Unfortunately, it didn’t make me impervious to sad, misguided, insecure men.
Read the rest of this post >>>